


Love Is a Shrine (Or Else a Scar)

by obstinate_questionings



Series: November Days [2]
Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Sequel, Thanksgiving Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_questionings/pseuds/obstinate_questionings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years later, newlywed Chloe and Beca spend Thanksgiving in Maine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is a Shrine (Or Else a Scar)

**Author's Note:**

> **Important note:** This story is a one-shot set in the 'verse of [Forgive Me These November Days](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4860356/chapters/11138153)\-- technically a sequel-- and will probably make very little sense without reading the original fic! 
> 
> Thanks as always to [lescousinsdangereux](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/pseuds/lescousinsdangereux) for support and encouragement and being a persistent Chloe Beale inspiration, as well as for crafting [this](http://thecousinsdangereux.tumblr.com/post/132632416463/forgive-me-these-november-days-the-playlist-a) _perfect_ November Days playlist, to which I basically wrote this whole thing. :D Thanks also to [betternovembers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/betternovembers/pseuds/betternovembers) and [lowlands](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lowlands/pseuds/lowlands) for being such amazing supporters of this universe (and me while writing fic about it) and for much-valued feedback on this. :D
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving! :D
> 
> [One note on content: as with the original fic, there is occasional reference to parental death (as well as to cancer), in case these are triggering topics.]

**Wednesday, November 21 st, 2018**

It surprised Chloe, how good it felt to be back.

And she was back, for sure—she knew _exactly_ which jagged rock to scale, barefoot, to catch the view of the receding foam. She leaned back, listening to the chatter of a few noisy seagulls on her right, from just beyond the lighthouse, and let her mind settle into what was almost a memory.

Looking out from that spot, it was so easy to imagine just how Beca had seen her that afternoon six years ago, almost to the day, backing into a wave as it broke on the shore.

There was no reason, she was pretty sure, that thinking about it should have made her feel sad. But maybe sadness wasn’t even the right word for it: it was only a dull ache, barely noticeable anymore.

She just still _hated_ that Beca might not have known then—scrambling down from the rock—how fast Chloe’s heart had been beating at the sight of her drawing nearer.

(But, no.

Even then, Beca’s touch had been so sure as she’d moved her hand up to her cheek.

And, not long after, when Chloe’s fingertips had found that scar along her thigh, her eyes had closed in total trust.)

 “Chloe?”

She was smiling broadly at the sound of Beca’s quiet voice even before she turned to see her waiting there, holding a white paper bag firmly in her left hand against the wind which threatened to carry it off.

She’d stopped by the bakery.

Chloe inched to the left and patted the space next to her on the rock. Beca stood up on her toes first, passing Chloe the food, before using both hands to climb up next to her.

Peeking into the bag, Chloe had expected something like the delicious-smelling lemon shortbread she found there, but her eyes widened happily at the small carton of blueberries pressed up next to it.

Beca wiped her hands on her jeans as Chloe pulled her closer.

“You went to the grocery store too?”

Beca, predictably, was already shivering against her.

“I mean, it was on the way back.”

Chloe carefully opened the carton of berries, and handed it to Beca to hold. She grabbed a few at once and popped them into her mouth before reaching to take a bite of the shortbread.

She closed her eyes as she chewed, savoring the taste: her favorite.

“Did you get a lot of work done?” Beca asked as Chloe opened her eyes.

The wind was blowing Beca’s hair into her face. Chloe loved how messy it looked—she never bothered to do anything with it while home in Maine.

(It had been wavy back then, too—that first time Chloe had moved her fingers through it—and so soft.)

“Um, some,” Chloe answered hesitantly.

It was _almost_ true. She’d thought about doing work, anyway.

“Oh—good,” Beca said. It was possible she wasn’t convinced.

Chloe held out the shortbread to Beca and she tore off the smallest piece, never moving her gaze from Chloe’s face.

Chloe turned to watch the strange texture of the water, spilling out over the rocks closest to the shore in white streams, like sand through an hourglass. She could hear Beca chewing as she leaned in.

“So,” Beca broke the silence, “there’s a guy tuning the piano at the cottage.”

Even if it was a _little_ mocking, Chloe loved the hint of eagerness in her voice.

“I know,” she replied, reaching over to the carton on Beca’s lap for another few blueberries. “Patrick called for a technician this morning.”

“I figured. He’s got it so bad.”

Chloe placed a hand gently on Beca’s arm. She stopped chewing, and turned to meet Chloe’s slightly warning glance.

“ _Please_ be nice to him when she gets here.”

Beca rolled her eyes—even if she was smiling.

“No, I mean—obviously. It’s just funny. It’s probably literally the first time it’s ever been tuned. Honestly, I forgot it was there.”

Chloe’s heart leapt a little in excitement, seeing the wind dash an unexpectedly large wave against a rock.

“I think it’s really nice,” she said. “I haven’t heard her play in so _long_.”

Beca thoughtfully wiped shortbread crumbs off her jeans, and placed the blueberry carton back into the paper bag.

“She’ll be here really soon, Chlo,” she said, after a minute, and in response, Chloe took in a deep breath.

She nodded.

“I know.”

“T minus four hours,” Beca added, nudging her with her elbow.

Hearing her eager tone, Chloe felt the forced grin on her face soften into something genuine. Her wife was so sweet.

“I know,” she said again, a little more warmly.

Across the water, Chloe could see an older woman and her golden retriever start to weave through the line of rocks Beca had once told her she used to run across as a kid.

“Eileen’s going to land in an hour, I think,” Beca added. “Patrick’s been begging her not to be weird with Aubrey.”

Chloe winced as she saw the woman almost slip with an uncertain step. As she steadied herself, the dog looped around to lean against her side.

“I _really_ hope she won’t be,” Chloe said. “I want Aubrey to love it here as much as I do.”

Beca moved the bag in her hands to her side. With her hands free, she grabbed one of Chloe’s with her own.

They watched the dog nervously skirt around the water as the woman settled down into a comfortable-looking nook in the rocks.

Beca’s hand was so cold. Chloe squeezed it, and let her mind wander back again to the memory that Beca’s arrival had interrupted—of the first time Chloe’s hand had traced a scar.

(She’d thought of it a week or so before, too, when reading that line in her poetry seminar had jolted her back:

 _Either love is_  
_—a shrine?_  
_or else a scar._

She’d tried to explain it to the other students, how much she loved that heart-wrenching pun: _khram_ , temple; _shram_ , scar.

Sometimes, she’d said, you love where someone has hurt, the evidence that they’ve _healed_ , most of all.

A few of the others, like they often did when Chloe spoke up, had rolled their eyes.)

Hearing Chloe involuntarily sigh at the memory, Beca turned to her in concern.

“Everything okay?”

That dog—Chloe was proud of him—had pressed through his fear, and was now timidly wading through the shallow water.

The waves, brightened a little by the afternoon sun, were almost exactly the color of Beca’s worried eyes.

“Yeah,” she answered—and in the moment, she meant it. “Perfect.”

Beca warmed, seeing her smile again.

“So,” she said, and Chloe moved her head to her shoulder, anticipating the question, “is now a good time?”

Chloe nodded, feeling Beca’s sweater scratch against her face.

“Mmhmm,” she replied, after a moment. “Can you start?”

*

They’d started the tradition in St. Petersburg, walking along the Neva, the day after Beca had moved her great-aunt’s ring onto Chloe’s finger.

Chloe had invited her friend Kolenka to come hang out with them again, and Aubrey was listening to him, clearly disgusted, as he explained in great detail what she had missed in staying home the day before from their trip to see Peter the Great’s fetus collection at the ethnographic museum.

Chloe, who could totally understand Aubrey’s horror, was watching her broadening eyes with amusement when Beca had lightly placed a hand on her arm, inviting her with a nod to walk along the embankment with her.

Beca had been so quiet that day. Her eyes were so bright.

Chloe kept repeating the words in her head: her _fiancée_.

They strolled silently along the river for a few minutes, Chloe’s eyes contentedly straying to watch a boat lazily cut through the water, leaving a white trail in its wake. A little further on, a middle-aged man with a scarf wrapped around his face was throwing bread crumbs to some ducks below.

Chloe stopped Beca with a hand to her back, and they leaned over the side of the embankment to watch the birds rustle their wings and jostle each other for the scraps.

When Chloe’s vision blurred slightly, watching them, she hadn’t exactly known why—it just must have been how the light was catching the water around the excited animals, and how she’d felt so _safe_ , so thankful.

“I’m so _happy_ , Beca.”

Beca was fidgeting at the edge of her coat’s sleeve, and, for once, Chloe knew it wasn’t from nervousness.

“I don’t want to wait too long,” Beca blurted out. Surprised with herself, she stopped to take a breath. “I mean—I don’t know. I’d definitely get if you wanted to live together for a while after you came back, before we got married, but…”

Chloe didn’t let her finish.

“Beca, I’d marry you right _now_ if you wanted.”

(Hearing that, Beca blushed.)

“Like, I mean, if it were legal here, I guess,” Chloe went on, but then immediately shook her head. “No, I don’t care. Aubrey could do it! In my apartment. It would be totally legit. Kolenka would be our witness.”

Beca moved her eyes away from Chloe’s, smiling broadly down at the ducks.

“But, yeah, I totally agree,” Chloe concluded. “Let’s do it when I get back.” She brightened with a sudden realization. “In the fall! Around Thanksgiving.”

Beca kept grinning at the birds.

“Yeah. That sounds really great, Chlo.”

“In Maine,” Chloe added, and Beca looked up.

“I would really love that,” she said slowly, dragging out each syllable.

Chloe realized that the man with the scarf around his face was watching them with interest, staring at them even as he tore more pieces of bread to throw below him. She hated that she had to hope he didn’t know English.

(It was going to be like that for a while, she knew. How, she asked herself, was she just not going to tell _everyone_ for so many months?)

They spent a few more minutes looking out at the water, till the man ran out of bread and began to walk away.

The ducks, too, started to wade in different directions. Chloe waited for Beca to suggest they keep walking, or to rejoin Aubrey and Kolenka, but she just continued to stare at the water.

When she started talking again, she was on another topic, and her voice wasn’t as sure.

“Chloe, why didn’t you—I mean, you don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to...”

She looked so flustered. Chloe was about to tell her not to worry, that there was nothing Beca could say that would ever bother her, when she went on.

“I just mean, with all of your Friendsgivings, I wish I would have known…” She sighed. “I wish I would have known about your mom.”

Chloe hadn’t known how to respond at first. She just felt herself reflexively starting to bite at the inside of her lip, and the slight, familiar pain that followed. She waited for Beca to take her hand into hers.

“I’m sorry if you don’t want to talk about it,” Beca attempted, her face etched with concern. “I just… I keep thinking about Friendsgiving senior year.”

Chloe hadn’t expected that—she hated that Beca was still worried about these things.

“Chlo, I _never_ would have missed it if… I mean, I shouldn’t have missed it, anyway. I was such an idiot. But I _never_ would have.”

“ _Beca_ ,” she said tenderly, and—Russian culture temporarily forgotten—she moved her gloved hand to Beca’s chin, tilting her face upwards so she could stop her rambling with a quick kiss. As Chloe moved away from her, fingers still resting on her face, Beca still looked upset.

Chloe tilted her head, watching her sympathetically.

“That’s so in the past, Beca,” she said. “All of it.”

Beca gave a hesitant nod.

“And my mom…” Chloe took in a breath. “I don’t really know why. Talking about her…” She struggled to find the right words, but they didn’t come. “I don’t know. It’s really hard.”

“No, Chloe, I mean, of course it is,” Beca scrambled to say, moving a hand along Chloe’s arm. “And you definitely don’t have to.”

It was so nice, how much it helped that she was touching her.

Her _fiancée_.

Chloe tried to decide what to say next, distracted slightly by the harsh voice of a man cursing loudly at a friend as he’d pushed past them. Not understanding the words, Beca didn’t seem to notice. She just stared back at Chloe thoughtfully, waiting.

“Um, I’d like to talk about her sometimes, I think,” Chloe said before she even knew she was going to.

Beca looked surprised.

“Yeah?”

Chloe took in a deep breath.

“Um. Yeah,” she responded, even as her stomach clenched at the thought.

“Like… right now?” Beca asked, and Chloe just shrugged helplessly.

A solid minute passed before she decided to keep talking.

She broke the silence by telling her a story—

(That when she was six, she and her mom had come up with a game. Everything was singing, and the challenge was to figure out what was singing _now_.)

Beca listened without responding, so it had been so unexpected, and so wonderful, when she started them off.

“Okay, so, the ducks could have been singing, right?” she asked, obviously embarrassed.

Chloe nodded, delighted at the words.

“Um, I guess they could have been congratulating us,” Beca went on. “You know. For getting engaged.”

Chloe laughed.

“Is that right?” Beca asked uncertainly. “Like, is that how you play?”

Her _fiancée_.

“Exactly, Beca,” she said. “That’s so, so right.”

*

It wasn’t like they had actually decided to play it every Thanksgiving.

It was just understood—like the year before, only a few weeks after their wedding, when they’d made their way out to the wooden swing behind Chloe’s dad’s house, and Beca had commented on how great the crows sounded.

Now, on the rocks, Beca held Chloe tightly against her and asked if she thought the barking dog was a little pitchy, or if it seemed like the wind was going for a power ballad.

Chloe answered with her head—shaking, then nodding—and Beca didn’t say anything as Chloe reached up to wipe a few tears from her face.

When Beca couldn’t think of anything more to say, Chloe leaned up to press her lips against Beca’s cold cheek.

She kept holding onto her tightly, even as they made their way back to the cottage.

*

As they walked through the door, they could hear Arnie snapping at Patrick—again.

Beca averted her eyes from Chloe’s at the sound.

Chloe knew Beca didn’t want to talk about it, but she was really worried (like everyone was) about how Arnie’s heart attack a few months before had changed him.

Poor Patrick, who’d decided to move in with Arnie when he’d visited him at the hospital, was bearing the brunt of it.

“I’d been feeding myself for decades before you were in diapers,” they heard, and Beca hung her coat up on the rack a little more aggressively than she needed to.

Patrick didn’t seem to be responding to Arnie’s rant, but Chloe could hear kitchen sounds (in her heart, they’d always be “Aubrey sounds”)—a knife hitting a cutting board, the metallic clang of a spoon against a pot—which she knew meant that Patrick was concentrating.

No one could have predicted it: he’d learned to cook.

Chloe reached for Beca’s hand, and watched her wife take in a steadying breath as they started walking towards the kitchen.

*

Patrick and Arnie weren’t alone.

Ciarán and Rachel—Patrick’s older brother and his partner—kept Patrick company as their five-year-old son, Avi, made a mess out of the remains of his sandwich at the kitchen island.

Avi, the first to notice Beca and Chloe coming in, responded to their entrance by jumping off his chair and making a beeline towards Beca.

It was a shock to everyone except Chloe, how much Avi liked Beca. They’d gotten even closer after Beca and Chloe had moved to New York, only a few train connections away from the brownstone in Brooklyn where Ciarán and Rachel lived.

“Hey, kid,” Beca said with shortened breath from within his squeeze.

Chloe let go of Beca’s hand to let her give him a quick hug back as Chloe herself made her way to the chair he had just vacated.

“Do you wanna watch a movie later?” Avi asked eagerly, and even Chloe was surprised that her answer to _that_ question was “sure.”

Arnie was in the connected living room, watching _Bones_ loudly on the flatscreen from the couch.

Chloe peeked at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if she should go say hi.

“Avi, let your cousin sit down and get some lunch, okay?” Rachel scolded him as he attempted to drag Beca towards his ongoing Lego project in the next room.

“But she’s not even hungry,” Avi insisted, and looked up to Beca for confirmation.

Beca shrugged, and Rachel stared back skeptically.

“Okay,” she gave up, evidently deciding it wasn’t worth it, “go ahead.”

Avi jubilantly pulled Beca away, explaining to her that they’d have to search for a few of the pieces he’d lost since they’d arrived at the cottage.

“There’s sandwich stuff on the island if you want some, Chloe,” Patrick said from the stove.

He wasn’t as orderly a cook as Aubrey—little puddles of sauce and traces of flour littered the counters—but Chloe was still shocked, how it looked like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Oh, _thank_ you,” she responded. “Do you need any help with dinner?”

He regarded her hesitantly, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Uh, that’s okay.”

The way he said it, she wondered if it was Beca or Aubrey who’d told him about her _slight_ difficulties with cooking.

She didn’t know exactly how often he and Aubrey had been talking.

(She _did_ know that when Arnie had been rushed to the hospital, she’d been the one he’d called first.)

“Well, it smells _really_ good,” she said.

“That’s the thyme,” he responded evenly. “And the sage.”

Chloe had to suppress a laugh. Who _was_ he?

“So can you make your idiot wife a sandwich?” he asked, stirring whatever was in the pot.

(Okay, _there_ he was.)

“She’s been letting that kid pull her around all day,” he went on. “I don’t even think she’s eaten yet.”

“ _Actually_ ,” Chloe corrected, “we just had some shortbread.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her.”

“And blueberries!” Chloe added brightly. “Fruit is _definitely_ real food.”

“Just make her an actual sandwich, all right?”

Of course, she had been planning to anyway. She reached over for some bread and began spreading some mayonnaise on a slice.

Leaving the pot for a minute, Patrick made his way back to a cutting board on which he’d placed a long bunch of chives. He looked down, a little puzzled, as he separated the bunch in two.

“ _Oh, it’s there!_ Beca, can you reach it?”

Avi and Beca were on their knees, peering underneath an armchair in the next room. Chloe glowingly watched Beca bend her head down to the carpet to get a better look.

Arnie turned up the volume on the TV as Beca pulled the little Lego person out from under the furniture, earning a triumphant exclamation from Avi.

Chloe turned back to Patrick, wanting to make a comment about how _cute_ Beca was, and noticed he’d set aside almost all of the chives.

She leaned forward.

“You know, Patrick,” she said quietly, hoping her wife would be too distracted to overhear. “You should really chop them all up.”

He looked up, curious.

“Bree _loves_ chives,” she explained, and winked.

It just made her so happy—that his cheeks went pink.

Only three more hours, and _Aubrey_ would be there.

Chloe couldn’t even control her smile as she reached for the plate of cheese.

*

Aubrey’s plane was delayed.

Beca had rushed across the room when she saw Chloe read the text, even as Avi obliviously continued to describe to her the starship he was planning to build.

The tears that filled Chloe’s eyes had been really unexpected.

“I’m okay,” she said hoarsely to Beca, trying to force a laugh. “This is so silly.”

Beca didn’t say anything; she just pulled her close and took her phone to read the text herself.

Standing next to Chloe in the chair, she was the taller one for once. Chloe relaxed gratefully against her as she looked up for her reaction.

“I mean, it’s okay,” she said as Beca read. “She’ll be here late tonight.”

Even as she the words left her lips, her eyes were getting watery again.

Patrick had stopped cooking. He walked up to the counter, uncertainly standing a few feet away from them.

Beca bent down to kiss the top of her head.

It was so silly. She didn’t know why she’d gotten like that.

*

She was feeling a little better after dinner, with Avi snug in the middle of her and Beca as he gaped at _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ on the screen in front of them.

He was pressed into Chloe, his warm face resting against her side. She moved an arm around him, holding him close as Harry and Ron made their way through the Forbidden Forest.

“Wait, in the book, the spiders grab them and take them to Aragog, right?” Beca asked, leaning forward with her hands resting between her knees. “They don’t just follow the trail there.”

Chloe nodded happily, moving a hand affectionately to Avi’s head.

She didn’t know what gave her more joy—that Beca still remembered so much from the books Chloe had spent all year reading to her, or that she was paying that much attention to a movie.

As soon as Aragog came on the screen, Avi buried his face completely in Chloe’s side.

“I don’t like this part,” he said quietly, and Beca all but jumped to grab the remote and fast forward through the scene.

They didn’t talk much through the rest of the movie. Beca remained at attention, only occasionally pointing out more details left out from the book.

Avi had started to fall asleep before the Basilisk showed up, which was probably for the best. When Chloe picked him up carefully from the couch, steadying him against her hip to return him to his parents, she noticed Beca’s laser focus had drifted from the movie for the first time since they’d sat down.

She was watching Chloe so strangely.

“What?” she asked quietly, and Avi, barely waking, wrapped his arms weakly around her neck.

“Nothing,” Beca said, her voice low.

She turned back to the screen.

“I’ll be right back,” Chloe told her, and carefully carried Avi out of the room.

*

Aubrey’s flight kept getting pushed back—technical difficulties, apparently. Chloe’s stomach was beginning to ache a little, but at least she didn’t start crying again.

It was looking like Aubrey might not get there till 3 AM. Poor Eileen was stuck at the airport, waiting for her, but she’d promised it was okay—she was in the middle of a good book, she’d said.

Seeing Chloe nervously bite at the skin on her lips, Beca had timidly suggested they just keep watching the _Harry Potter_ movies.

It _might_ have been partially to get the smile she did get back at the suggestion, but Chloe suspected Beca had her own motives.

“You said the third movie is one of the best ones, right?” she asked offhandedly, putting in the DVD.

Chloe was so glad that Beca had remembered that.

“Mmhmm. Totes,” she responded, and let her anxious breath even out.

*

Chloe was silent throughout most of _Prisoner of Azkaban_ and _Goblet of Fire_ , loving the gentle weight of Beca against her side. She whispered answers to all of her clarifying questions, and agreed with her repeated statements about how much better the books were.

When Cedric Diggory was about to meet his fate at the end of the fourth movie, Beca moved to lay her head in Chloe’s lap. Chloe stroked her hair, knowing how much this part had upset Beca in the books.

(“I don’t know… he was just such a good person,” she’d stammered, trying to explain why it had caused her to tear up. After a minute, she’d added in a mumble, “I just really like the Hufflepuff characters, okay?”)

She seemed to make it through the end of the film without too much emotional upheaval. About ten minutes into _Order of the Phoenix_ , Chloe noticed that Beca’s eyelids were starting to close for ever-increasing intervals of time.

Chloe stared down at her, feeling such warmth in her chest, wondering how she could ever be sad in New York when she had _Beca_ there with her. It felt so ungrateful, that she was capable of spending even a minute of being married to her not bursting with joy.

The thought confused her—but it was interrupted by the wonderful sound of the front door quietly creaking open.

 _Aubrey_. Finally.

*

The hallway was dark, and Chloe couldn’t quite make out her face. She did, however, see her stop dead in her tracks at the sight of her and Beca entering the corridor.

It was strange, that Chloe didn’t immediately rush up to her. It took her a few seconds to catch her breath as she saw Aubrey hand Eileen her bag—and then she ran to her.

She pulled Aubrey into a hug, automatically resting her head against her shoulder, and Aubrey hugged her back—for once—just as tightly as Chloe always did.

She could hear Aubrey’s voice cracking as she whispered a greeting:

“My Chloe.”

She was still holding her firmly thirty seconds later when Beca walked up to join them.

“Hey,” Beca said, and Chloe felt one of Aubrey’s arms lifting off of her to pull Beca close.

“Okay, I’m going to bed,” Eileen said from behind them, and Beca laughed.

“Sorry, Aunt Eileen,” she said, cringing slightly, but she didn’t move out of either Aubrey’s or Chloe’s arms.

*

None of them wanted to go to sleep _just_ yet.

Aubrey joined them on the couch—Chloe in the middle, as usual—to finish up the fifth movie.

Beca, her head back in Chloe’s lap, was struggling so hard to stay awake, but that didn’t stop her from making choice comparisons whenever possible between Aubrey and Dolores Umbridge. In return, Aubrey spontaneously composed a list of traits shared in common between Beca and the average Gringotts goblin.

Chloe had thought Beca had fallen asleep by the time they reached Dumbledore’s and Harry’s final scene, but as it ended, Beca spoke up.

“They took so much out of that conversation,” she said, the disappointment in her voice so clear.

“I know,” Chloe whispered back.

“It’s so important, though,” Beca went on, and Chloe moved a hand along her arm comfortingly. “That whole part.”

“Yeah,” Chloe said, her throat tightening. “It is.”

Settling into silence for the last couple scenes, Chloe pulled Aubrey closer to her on her left. She wrapped an arm around Chloe’s to rest against her.

Chloe shut her eyes.

Beca, a few minutes later, had to wake her with a soft nudge to her arm. She let Beca lead her gently back to their room.

*

**Thursday, November 22 nd, 2018 (Thanksgiving Day)**

Chloe wasn’t sure what time it was when she woke up.

Beca looked like she’d been up for a while, sitting cross-legged at the foot of their twin bed (they, along with Aubrey, had somehow been stuck with the kids’ room again) with her computer in her lap.

As Chloe yawned, reaching up to rub her eyes, Beca set her laptop down on the floor. She climbed back up onto the bed and lied down beside Chloe, leaving just a couple inches between them.

Chloe breathed in the smells wafting in from the kitchen—onions and carrots and celery; she knew the scents of Aubrey’s cooking so well—as she placed a hand against Beca’s face, letting her fingers tangle into her hair.

“Good morning,” Beca said eagerly as Chloe leaned in, cutting off the end of the second word as she pressed her lips softly against hers.

Chloe started to move back, ready to answer with a “good morning” of her own, but Beca stopped her, moving a hand behind her head to pull her closer.

Chloe knew she should mention—she could see it—that the door to their room was slightly ajar (Avi, after all, could come running in to search for his favorite cousin at any moment), but as Beca’s lips moved to linger along the curve of her neck, she found it more and more difficult to care even a little.

*

It was noon by the time she convinced Beca they should get out of bed.

“Bree needs our help,” she insisted, moving a shirt over her head.

“Chloe,” Beca said lazily, holding her own shirt in her hands without putting it on, “there are so many amazing things about you, but eventually you’re going to have to admit that you are just not much help with making dinner.”

Chloe offered a hand to Beca, pulling her up to sit next to her.

“I don’t want to leave her all _alone_.”

Beca smiled wryly.

“Oh, but she’s _not_.”

Chloe raised an eyebrow.

“Patrick?”

“Yeah, I should have mentioned it. They’ve been up at least since six. It’s disgusting.”

Chloe took in another breath of the warm smells filling the house—something buttery now—and thought about the only time she’d witnessed Aubrey allow someone to help her cook. She’d been so frustrated by all of Amy’s attempts.

“ _Interesting_ ,” Chloe said.

“That’s one word for it,” Beca responded from within her shirt as she pulled it down over her face.

Chloe reached over to fix Beca’s hair, which the shirt had swept in the wrong way across her part.

“What do you really think about them, though, Beca?” she asked, making her tone more serious. “Like, in real life.”

“As opposed to… in fake life?”

Chloe shook her head.

“I mean—not joking. What do you think about them? Do you think he’d be good for her?”

Beca took a few moments to respond. She shrugged.

“I mean, it’s weird. He’s my idiot cousin. She’s my irritating friend-in-law.”

Chloe grinned at her grumpy expression.

“And you love them both,” she said, giving her a nudge.

Beca rolled her eyes, trying to force down a smile.

“ _Yes_. I love them both.”

Chloe inched a little closer.

“A _lot_.”

“Yeah, fine, a lot.”

That earned a kiss to her temple. Beca, feeling it, relaxed against Chloe.

“I don’t know, though,” she went on, a little more quietly. “Like, a few years ago I probably would have said she was way too good for him. But he’s changed a lot.”

Chloe nodded. That’s what she thought, too.

“Uh huh,” she said.

“He’s so good with Arnie now,” Beca told her, starting to pick at the skin around her fingernails absentmindedly as she brought up the topic. “It’s weird. Even when Arnie’s not… I don’t know, when he’s not very nice to him. My mom thinks that Arnie should be in a home now, basically. But Patrick has been trying so hard.”

“That’s really, really good,” Chloe agreed, moving a hand over Beca’s to stop her fidgeting.

Beca turned up to meet her eyes squarely.

“It would be so bizarre, though, right? Like, if he and Aubrey were really together. What if they got married?” She looked horrified. “We’d be stuck with her forever.”

Beca seemed to realize her mistake almost as soon as she’d said it—but, really, how else had she expected her to react?

Chloe was still smiling broadly a few minutes later when they finally made it into the kitchen.

*

Avi was having what Ciarán referred to as A Day.

It was all the excitement, probably, and—though Ciarán hastened to make it clear that he didn’t blame Beca and Chloe—that he’d stayed up later than his usual bedtime.

It didn’t help that Rachel was sick with some kind of stomach virus. Aubrey had politely suggested they quarantine her in the guest room, while Ciarán struggled to move between caring for her and attending to his cranky son throwing Legos at anyone who tried to talk to him in the living room.

Avi had brightened, however, when Beca and Chloe finally showed up.

“Why did you sleep _forever_?” was his version of a hello, but Beca didn’t seem to mind.

“Sorry, dude,” was her only response.

Aubrey, noticing Chloe enter the kitchen, stopped her explanation to Patrick of how to make a perfect roux mid-sentence. She matched Chloe’s smile with her own as Chloe made her way around the kitchen island to hug her again.

“Good _morning_ , Aubrey,” she whispered fondly.

“It’s afternoon,” Aubrey replied, but her tone was, if anything, even sweeter than Chloe’s.

Chloe broke away from her grasp and moved back to the island, leaning her elbows against it as she looked at Aubrey.

“So, how can I help?”

Patrick shared a significant—if amused—glance with Aubrey.

“I think we’re all set, Chloe,” she said kindly.

Chloe was about to protest when she was distracted by the sound of a gruff voice from the next room. It took her a minute to figure out what had happened—Arnie, wearing only socks on his feet, had accidentally stepped on a Lego on his way to the couch.

At the sound of his loud cursing, Avi had started crying. Chloe moved towards the next room to see what she could do, and noticed that Beca had already picked Avi up, holding him firmly against her while he sobbed into her neck. She pressed a kiss into his hair.

(Chloe’s heart skipped a beat.)

Arnie moved to apologize to Avi for his response, but seeing that the kid just buried his face more deeply in Beca’s neck when he used his cane to stumble closer, he stopped.

Chloe hated it, that he looked so sad.

Ciarán came rushing back into the room, asking what was wrong.

“Um,” Chloe started, but Beca got an answer out first.

“Hey, Ciarán,” Beca said, bending to let Avi back down onto the ground. He reluctantly let go of her, but maintained his grip on her hand. “Do you want us to take Avi off your hands for a few hours? I think he might just need to get out of the house.”

Hearing the suggestion, Ciarán looked like he was ready to spearhead the cause for Beca’s canonization.

“ _Would_ you?” he asked—well, _sighed_ , more like.

Beca caught Chloe’s eyes apologetically—maybe she was thinking she should have checked in with her first—but Chloe could only beam back. Beca, taken aback by the intensity of Chloe’s expression, turned down towards Avi and asked him where he’d put his coat.

*

As Beca got Avi ready, Chloe, not wanting to disturb the laughing conversation that had resumed between Aubrey and Patrick, wandered slowly into the living room.

Arnie didn’t hear her over the sound of the TV when she said hi; he didn’t even notice she was there until she’d sat down beside him on the couch.

He offered a strained smile.

“Comrade,” he greeted her, nodding his head.

“Arnie,” she said as brightly as she could, hoping her voice expressed at least a _little_ bit of how much she liked him.

She reached over and took his hand. She’d known how rough his skin was, but she was surprised by how cold it felt.

She leaned back into the couch, moving her gaze to the screen as a new episode of _CSI_ came on.

“Have you seen this one before?” she asked.

Arnie nodded slowly.

“About three times,” he answered. “It’s a wild ride.”

“Well, don’t ruin it for me,” Chloe said, and winked.

Beca, seeing them on the couch as she returned with Avi (both of them in their coats), distracted her little cousin with videos on her phone until the episode was over.

*

The film was a little violent for Chloe’s taste, but Avi really liked action movies.

Beca, on the other hand, looked like she was approaching truly unprecedented heights of boredom as the movie rolled into its second hour. Chloe reached behind Avi’s seat (in the middle) to pull a strand of hair behind Beca’s ear, letting her fingers brush up against her earlobe as she pulled back.

Beca smiled shyly, reaching for another handful of popcorn in the bucket on her lap.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” Avi kept repeating, his hands pulling down the skin on his face comically.

Chloe turned back to see why—a bad guy (she guessed) was plummeting from a skyscraper down to the pavement below.

“Oh my Gooood.”

Beca caught Chloe’s eyes, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

Chloe fondly messed up the hair on Avi’s head.

“Oh my God, that was so awesome,” he concluded.

*

Avi enthusiastically recapped the movie they had all just seen together as Chloe drove them back towards the cottage.

Chloe made intermittent sounds of interest as he tried to remember the order of every detail.

“And then he got beat up again for the second time, and then he went back—no, wait, then the bad guys found him on top of the building…”

Beca was quiet, occasionally looking down to smile at her phone.

“Who is it?” Chloe asked. Avi didn’t seem to notice that he’d lost her attention.

“Your little brother,” Beca answered holding up the screen towards Chloe. “He’s boycotting Thanksgiving.”

Chloe grinned. “Oh, Hugo.”

“No, it’s actually, like…” Beca scrolled up a few texts in the thread. “It’s actually not just him being _him_. He’s been doing a lot of reading about his own background—like, of Jules’ family. It’s really cool. He’s been teaching himself Cree language from the internet.”

Chloe had a difficult time keeping her eyes on the road as Beca moved through her emails, reading out sentences to her. Beca was so proud of him.

“It’s awesome, when people grow up,” Chloe told her, as soon as she’d stopped talking.

Beca put her phone down in one of the cup holders.

“Yeah. It kind of is.”

In the backseat, Avi was still going strong, becoming even more animated as he reached the movie’s denouement.

“And then that guy _died_ , and I didn’t even know he was going to die.”

“Uh huh,” Chloe affirmed, catching his frantic eyes in the rearview mirror. “And then what happened?”

*

They were only about five minutes away from the cottage when Beca noticed the sign.

She didn’t have to say anything—she just placed her fingers lightly on Chloe’s arm and nodded her head towards it.

Chloe’s heart fluttered.

Beca looked so happy as she watched Chloe reach for the turn signal.

“Hey, Avi,” Chloe called to the backseat. “How do you like mini golf?”

*

Avi was probably about as good at miniature golf as Beca had been seven years previously, but at least he was more enthusiastic. He attacked the ball with his little club each time as if it were personally putting him in danger. It kept hitting hard against the red-striped wooden lighthouse in the middle of the green and rolling back towards them.

Chloe stopped him with a hand to his shoulder as he prepared to have another go at it.

She squatted down so that she was at eye level with him.

“You’re doing super great, Avi,” she told him. “But do you want me to show you some secret mini golf tricks?”

He sought out Beca’s eyes for approval. She nodded, making her face as serious as possible.

“Oh, yeah, okay,” he agreed nonchalantly.

Chloe stood up. She held out her hand for his club, which he hesitantly passed over to her. She used her foot to drag over the ball.

“Now, you see how I’m standing?” she asked, gesturing down at her feet. “About as wide as my shoulders, right?”

Avi nodded.

“That makes it work even _better_ , when you do it like that.”

He shuffled his feet into the same position, and looked up at her questioningly.

“Oh my God, yes, perfect,” she said enthusiastically.

His cheeks went a little pink at the praise.

“Now,” she went on, holding the club out in front of her, “here’s the cool trick with swinging.”

She swung the club back and forth in the air, without trying to hit the ball, like the pendulum in a grandfather clock.

“Can you try swinging it like that?” she asked, passing him back the club.

Avi—with his round face, dark blonde hair, and green eyes—didn’t usually look much like Beca, but Chloe loved how obvious it was that they were related as soon as his forehead wrinkled in determined concentration, swinging the club left and right.

“Yes! _Amazing_ ,” she told him.

Chloe could see Beca in her peripheral vision, watching her with that same strange expression she’d had on her face the night before.

(Chloe thought maybe she knew why, but the idea was too exciting even to think about too much right then.)

When he tried again, he got a hole-in-four, which, Beca pointed out, was as good as she’d ever managed.

*

He slowly improved as they reached the final holes. It was probably good that Chloe never kept score in mini golf, as the five-year-old was absolutely gaining the advantage over Beca.

(Chloe, however, never stopped applauding her wife as she dragged the ball in for another hole-in-six.)

Reaching the second to last hole, Beca told Chloe she was going to go to the bathroom, and said they should keep playing without her.

Chloe didn’t think much of it till she’d just made her last hole-in-one of the game, and saw Beca walking back towards them, struggling to hold three dripping ice cream cones in her hands.

When the mechanical music hailing Chloe’s victorious swing began, Beca, startled, almost dropped all three. Chloe cringed—but thankfully she caught her balance just in time.

“Did you get chocolate chip cookie dough?” Avi inquired greedily as she drew close, and Beca lowered her hands so that he could take his from her. He cheered.

Chloe grabbed her own cone from Beca and, after having freed her wife’s sticky hand, took it in her own and kissed it.

*

Ice cream maybe wasn’t the wisest decision, strictly speaking, as by the time they got back to the cottage, dinner was almost ready.

Avi, invigorated by a mixture of sugar and violent storytelling, was running up on top of one of the armchairs in the living room and jumping off of it over and over again. Arnie, on the couch, bristled at his repeated shouts, turning up the volume on the TV.

“I _wish_ you would have left the table for us to set up,” Chloe complained to Aubrey as she made her final selections on the serving utensils.

“Well, Beca’s mom all but _begged_ to help,” Aubrey explained, setting aside a large ladle. She moved some hair behind her ear. “And I wasn’t sure when you two were coming back.”

Her tone wasn’t angry or resentful at all—only honest—but Chloe couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“Is it okay that we left you here, Bree? You seemed kind of busy…”

“No— _no_ , Chloe,” Aubrey assured her, stopping what she was doing to grab her hand. “It was…” Her eyes flitted up to Patrick, who was speaking with Cathy in the hallway. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, turning back towards her friend. “But tomorrow is all about us, okay?”

“Yeah,” Chloe nodded eagerly, feeling that weird sadness rising in her throat again. “I’ve really missed you, Aubrey.”

Aubrey squeezed the hand in hers, her gaze softening at the sight of Chloe’s concern.

“Me too, Chlo. Every day.”

“Yeah,” Chloe said, her voice straining to a higher register. “Same.”

Aubrey’s focus wouldn’t have been shaken by anything but the oven timer. She squeezed Chloe’s hand one more time and let go of her—the turkey was ready.

*

Aubrey had outdone herself.

It maybe wasn’t quite as grandiose as that first Friendsgiving, her and Chloe’s sophomore year—it was homier, somehow friendlier. Bouquets of sunflowers and tiger lilies rested in little pumpkin vases all along the table, and Aubrey had foregone her usual orange tea lights for a few warm-looking cream-colored pillar candles arranged around the cornucopia centerpiece.

Beca’s family members, who had never aspired to standards beyond frozen pizza and paper plates for Thanksgiving dinner, didn’t know quite how to respond.

They filed in curiously, seeking out their individual place cards.

(Chloe’s, of course, was the only one with a heart drawn next to her name. Beca’s caused some confusion at first among the older members of the family, as it merely read “Griphook.”)

Avi’s sugar rush had worn off by the time they were all sitting at the table; he had more or less collapsed against his father, who tried to keep him awake by pointing out how cool the sculpted butter turkey was.

Arnie sat down last, across from Chloe, and quickly began scooping cranberry sauce onto his plate. Beca’s aunts and cousins immediately began to follow suit—till Patrick interrupted them.

“Hey, guys, wait.”

He reddened as the entire table turned towards him.

“Sorry. I just thought—uh. Shouldn’t we say grace?”

His eyes darted surreptitiously towards Aubrey, who seemed to color a bit in return. Beca shook her head and mouthed, “no, dude,” but Chloe thought it was amazing.

“Aubrey can do it,” she said cheerfully, and her best friend’s eyes caught hers with alarm. Chloe just smiled, raising her eyebrows encouragingly.

Aubrey seemed hesitant, but after a few seconds, she bowed her head.

Chloe and Patrick bowed theirs next and, after another moment, Beca joined in.

Eileen reflexively crossed herself, and then looked at the hand which had done it as if it were possessed. Arnie mumbled something under his breath that _might_ have been “opiate of the people.”

“Thank you so much,” Aubrey started, and then paused to take in a deep breath. “Thank you for bringing us here today. Thank you for the incredible generosity and hospitality of Cathy and her family. Thank you for giving us all a place to go.”

Chloe always understood _Aubrey_ more than she understood what saying grace was all about, but, this time, seeing her friend’s eyelids pressed down so firmly, her brow that furrowed, she couldn’t focus on anything at _all_ but her.

“Remember everyone who is alone tonight,” Aubrey went on. Chloe noticed that Patrick, too, had lifted his head to watch her more closely. “Remember everyone who needs a home. Or…” She paused. “Or who doesn’t feel welcome in the one they have.”

A few moments of silence followed. Aubrey didn’t open her eyes.

“Um,” she said eventually. “Amen.”

Chloe placed a hand over hers on the table.

“Amen,” she responded softly.

Beca, without needing to ask, passed Chloe the rolls.

*

All the butternut squash rolls in the world couldn’t have made the rest of the dinner less awkward.

It had been fine during the first course—for the most part, except for the family’s ten-minute grilling of Patrick about his new job (his first full-time job) teaching filmmaking to high schoolers.

Deirdre, Patrick’s older sister and a second grade public school teacher, seemed beyond skeptical as he explained that, yes, he had to be there every day, and, yes, he always wore a suit.

When Cathy jokingly offered to start a betting pool as to how long Patrick would last in the position, Chloe nervously turned to Beca for a sign of whether or not she should be concerned.

She didn’t really get Beca’s family’s way of laughing about these things, though she’d gotten a little more used to it with every visit. Still, it seemed like maybe the jokes were a little harsher than usual at this meal.

Chloe wasn’t sure, but it probably meant something that Beca wasn’t laughing.

“Give it a rest, guys,” Beca interjected, and her mother stopped to look at her with disbelief.

After a tense moment of silence, Deirdre spoke up.

“She’s got a point,” she laughed. “After all, our pool about how long it’d take for Beca to get fired has long since met its expiration.”

Chloe didn’t like that at _all_. She moved a hand to Beca’s under the table.

“You do know that Beca is the most successful person at this table, right?”

If she wouldn’t have been sitting right next to her, Chloe might not have believed that it was Aubrey who had said it.

“They’re just joking, Aubrey,” Beca told her quietly, but judging by Aubrey’s facial expression, it didn’t look like she bought it.

Still, ever the hostess (even at someone else’s house), she merely took in a breath before finding her smile again—a Bellas smile, not quite a _Bree_ one.

“I’ll get the next course,” she announced, standing up. “Chloe, can you help me carry in the soup bowls?”

*

Things hadn’t quite _exploded_ , though, till the main course.

It was mostly quiet, especially after Ciarán had left early to take Avi to bed. If anything, it was too silent—Chloe guessed it wasn’t normal to be able to hear so many people chewing at once.

It had been a harmless thing that had set everyone off, just Patrick placing a hand on Arnie’s shoulder and whispering something in his ear.

“I know damned well when to take my medication,” Arnie had snapped back.

Everyone recoiled a bit, and Chloe could tell by the way Arnie watched them all flinch that he hadn’t meant for everyone to hear. Patrick didn’t say anything; he just turned back to his plate and reached for another scoop of the butternut squash risotto he’d made the day before.

When Arnie left the table without explanation a minute later, it might have looked like he was mad. Chloe, though, was _sure_ he was embarrassed.

“Should we follow him?” Deirdre asked, as soon as he was out of earshot.

“Let’s give him some space,” Patrick answered. He sounded a little uncertain.

They chewed in silence for a minute till Cathy couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“That’s it,” she said, throwing her napkin down on the table. “Patrick, Arnie needs help that you can’t give him.”

“Whoa,” Beca halted her. “Where is this coming from, Mom?”

Chloe wrapped her arms around herself uncomfortably below the table. She could feel Aubrey’s hand moving to her back almost automatically.

“Don’t act like this is coming out of nowhere, Beca,” Cathy replied impatiently. “He’s our uncle. We all love him. He’s not _okay_ , and no one is talking about it.”

“Are you kidding?” Patrick cut in, defending himself for the first time in the conversation. “It’s all I hear from _any_ of you. And obviously he’s not okay, but…”

“You think you have it under control?” Cathy interrupted.

“No! I mean…” He stared down at his plate, pushing his turkey forward with a fork. “I don’t know.”

“Arnie’s doctors think Patrick is great,” Beca insisted. “The nurse who comes to visit, too. He coordinates everything with them.”

Chloe looked over at Patrick to see his reaction, but he was still staring down at his food.

“He’s ninety years old,” Deirdre said, and her voice was gentle. “He just had a heart attack. He needs more than a kid working his first real job…”

“A _kid_?” Aubrey interrupted, and Chloe could tell she was ready to get into it.

But she didn’t get the chance.

“ _Enough_.”

Eileen was reclining back in her chair, lazily swirling the wine in her glass.

“Is anyone else here willing to take Arnie into their home?”

The table was silent.

“I’m worried too, Cathy,”—she glanced significantly at her sister—“but Patrick’s doing the best he can. We should all be grateful, instead of ganging up on him at Thanksgiving dinner.”

Strangely, it was his mom’s defense which caused Patrick to rise from his chair in frustration.

“I’ll get the fucking pies,” he said.

*

Chloe had been the only one to offer to help Cathy wash dishes at the end of the meal.

Beca was furiously cleaning up the table with Eileen, both of them whispering their way through a tense conversation. As for Aubrey and Patrick, Chloe didn’t even know where they’d gone.

She quietly dried the plates Cathy passed to her, breaking the silence only to ask for clarification about where to put away the potato masher (which she referred to as “this thing”).

Hearing Chloe’s tentative question, Cathy sighed.

“Second drawer to your right, honey,” she answered.

Chloe pulled open the drawer, and, behind her, Cathy turned off the water.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” she told her.

Chloe could feel her face warming. She wasn’t sure what to say.

“Oh,” she tried. “That’s okay.”

“You have to know—I mean…” Cathy wiped her hands on the drying rag Chloe had left on the counter. “There’s a lot of concern behind all of it. We just want what’s best for him.”

Chloe nodded. She knew that.

“I guess we haven’t really been very kind to each other lately,” Cathy admitted, her voice thinning a little. “We’ve all been kind of on edge.”

Chloe walked closer, joining her again at the sink.

“It must be really hard,” Chloe said delicately. “I’ve only known him for a few years and, like, I totally hate what’s happening too.”

Cathy exhaled, like she’d been holding in a breath all day.

“Thank you, Chloe. I appreciate that.” She looked around the kitchen, as if to make sure it were empty. She lowered her voice. “I worry about Patrick too, you know.”

Chloe turned to the remaining dishes in the sink. She tried to think of what she could say to exempt herself from the conversation—she didn’t like that in every room of the house, probably, there were people talking about others under their breath.

“I think it’s a father thing,” Cathy went on. “Well, I’m afraid that it is. It was definitely the hardest for him when Conor died—his father, I mean.”

Chloe’s eyes snapped back up to Cathy’s.

How had she never known that? Beca had never explained, and Chloe (it seemed so inconsiderate, now) hadn’t ever asked.

“You know, he was just this funny little kid.” Cathy leaned against the sink, smiling thoughtfully. “Beca’s hero—by the way. Always so cool. And it _changed_ him.”

Cathy wasn’t looking at Chloe anymore; she was just kind of staring beyond her.

“Oh,” Chloe responded, if only to say something. “I didn’t… I didn’t really know.”

Cathy turned back towards the sink. She moved a hand to Chloe’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you all have each other,” she told her.

Chloe felt horrible.

(Why did they never visit Boston? Was school turning her into someone who just didn’t _care_ about people?)

“Really,” Cathy said, giving her a slight squeeze. “Thank you for that.”

Chloe couldn’t quite say “you’re welcome.”

She knew she didn’t deserve it.

*

Patrick had left his phone on the table.

He probably just had wanted to be away from it for a little while, but as Chloe watched him through the window—smoking on the porch—she found herself picking up the phone and walking towards him anyway.

It was a surprise, as soon as she walked out onto the porch, how grateful she was for the sound of the waves. It was too dark to see them, but she could hear that they were fuller, crashing more loudly than they had earlier that day on the rocks.

Patrick had turned towards her questioningly from the white wooden porch chair where he was sitting, but Chloe waited a few moments first, measuring the rhythm of her own heart against the tide’s back-and-forth.

She walked closer, and held out the phone.

“You left this inside,” she told him.

He looked back at the phone in her hand, waiting a couple seconds before he extended his own to grab it.

“Oh. Thanks, Chloe.”

Chloe backtracked a little towards the door to drag another one of the chairs next to Patrick’s. She was ready to leave if he asked her, but he didn’t say a word.

The moon—so close to full—was maybe even brighter than the glow from the lighthouse against the water, crowning the heads of the waves with silver light.

Patrick had just started a second cigarette when Chloe started talking.

“So, um,” she started, and shivered. She’d wished she’d brought her coat outside. “When I was in high school, my mom got really sick.”

Patrick stopped mid-drag on a breath of smoke, turning towards Chloe.

She knew her face was red, but hopefully he couldn’t _really_ tell in the dark. She was glad she hadn’t turned on the porch light.

“With, um. Well, it was cancer. And my aunt—my mom used to yell at my aunt a _lot_.”

Patrick was still looking at her, but he didn’t say anything. His hand holding the cigarette rested, maybe forgotten, against the arm of the porch chair.

“Not at me, though,” she went on. “She didn’t ever yell at me, and it made me feel…” She shrugged. “It made me feel really bad. Because my aunt was just there to help, you know?”

Patrick nodded. She could just see how concerned his eyes looked—he looked more like Beca than ever.

“One day, I thought she’d left,” Chloe told him. She cleared her throat. “They’d had this big fight… I think because my aunt wanted her to eat and she wouldn’t. I don’t know.”

She stopped.

“Yeah?” Patrick asked after a moment.

He sounded so kind, it made Chloe’s stomach hurt.

“Yeah.” She tried again. “I remember she’d taken her purse and left in her car and I thought it was just _over_. I didn’t think she’d come back… and, Patrick, I didn’t even blame her.”

He nodded again.

“It was a _lot_ , you know?”

He knew. He stared out at the water, thinking.

“Is she okay?” he asked eventually. “Your mom, I mean.”

Chloe moved her hands up along her arms.

She really should have gotten her coat.

“Oh. No,” she answered. “She passed away. Twelve years ago.”

(Almost exactly, she thought. Almost to the day.)

Patrick dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the ground, and quietly stomped it out.

“Nineteen for me,” he said slowly. “But it was my dad.”

He’d hardly stopped talking before his eyes widened with a realization.

“God, I’m sorry, Chloe,” he rushed to add. “That was such a jerk thing to do, making it about me. I’m really sorry about your mom.”

A grey cloud had started to inch over the face of the moon, dulling the light over the water.

Chloe reached across the space between their two chairs to place her hand on top of his.

“No, it’s okay,” she told him. “I’m really sorry, too. About your dad.”

He didn’t pull away. Chloe could feel him shaking a little.

“It really fucking sucks,” he said.

She squeezed the hand below hers.

“Yeah, it does,” she responded. “It totally does.”

Patrick kept staring at the water. It was strange, Chloe thought, that for a moment he looked more like Aubrey than Beca—she could tell how stubbornly he was trying to sort through the thoughts in his head, to bring them to order.

Chloe didn’t say anything else. She glanced up at the moon as it emerged from the cloud.

“Maybe they’re right,” he said finally. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with Arnie, I guess.”

It didn’t look like he’d anticipated Chloe to shake her head at that.

“I think you’re doing great,” she told him encouragingly. “I mean… they don’t really know what it’s like. Taking care of someone like that.”

He didn’t respond, so she kept talking.

“He’s super thankful for you, Patrick. I know he is.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“No—really!” Chloe’s hand squeeze had converted to a death grip. “You’re doing so great. Beca thinks so, too.”

He smiled a little when he heard that. Good.

“We should visit more,” she said, a little guiltily. “Arnie’s just the best.”

Patrick’s grin broadened at her last comment, and his eyes flashed. It was so cute.

“Right? And he’s an asshole too,” he said fondly. “Like me. And your wife.”

Chloe leaned in confidentially towards Patrick.

“You know, Patrick, just between you and me, she’s not very good at being an asshole.”

He laughed. He moved his hand out from under Chloe’s, leaning back into his chair.

“That’s dead on,” he told her. “Not for lack of trying, though.”

“No.” Chloe smiled. “Definitely not.”

Patrick picked at the sleeve of his sweatshirt in excitement.

“He has the best stories too,” he went on. “Has he told you the one about how he met Molly? My great-aunt?”

“Um, _no_ ,” Chloe replied enthusiastically, moving to the edge of her seat. “What is it?”

Patrick shook his head.

“You have to ask him,” he insisted. “It’s fucking incredible.”

The porch brightened suddenly—Chloe turned to see Aubrey inside the house, her fingers moving back from the light switch. She held a hand up in greeting.

“I will,” Chloe told Patrick, smiling back broadly at Aubrey. “I definitely will.”

“I guess that’s the cue to come in?” Patrick asked in a monotone, maybe to cover up the _obvious_ fact that he was blushing.

“I think so,” Chloe agreed.

She stood up, and reached for the door handle.

Before following her into the living room, Patrick bent down to pick up the discarded cigarette from the porch floor. He walked over to the plastic trashcan on the far left of the porch and threw it away.

Chloe held the door open for him, and gripped his shoulder as he came in after her.

As she noticed the touch, Aubrey’s eyes widened a little in surprise.

Chloe waited till Patrick had moved in front of them, walking towards the couch, to wink knowingly at her embarrassed friend.

*

Beca seemed a little morose, still, sitting on the couch.

Chloe rushed to join her, settling down and reaching over timidly to stroke her hair—earning a sweet smile in return.

“Are you okay?” Chloe asked quietly.

Beca shrugged.

“I know you don’t like it when your family fights, Becs,” she told her, “but I really think everything’s going to be okay.”

Beca forced a grin.

“Yeah,” she answered, leaning into Chloe’s touch as she continued to move her fingers through her hair. “I guess.”

They were interrupted by the return of Aubrey and Patrick—who had come bearing gifts.

Chloe’s jaw dropped at the unexpected sight of Aubrey setting down a bottle of bourbon on the table in front of them.

“So, we’re getting drunk,” Patrick announced.

*

Chloe didn’t have the tolerance she’d had back in college—she was already feeling unsteady by the third time the bottle had made its way back to her.

Beca, who’d always been more of a lightweight, was doing her best to pace herself—though she definitely was at least buzzed. Chloe was just so happy that Beca was smiling again, holding Chloe’s left hand palm upwards on her lap, tracing fingertips along her wrist.

Aubrey and Patrick, who’d pulled armchairs over around the other side of the coffee table, could hardly stop laughing as they recounted the absurdity of how the dinner had gone.

“But my favorite part,” Aubrey managed to get out, having to stop halfway through the sentence to catch her breath, “was you…” She lowered her voice in imitation. “‘I’ll get the fucking pies.’”

“Shut up,” he laughed, reaching over to push her arm lightly. “I’d worked hard on those stupid desserts.”

“Which were _delicious_ , by the way,” Chloe asserted.

Reminded of Chloe’s presence, Aubrey reached forward to place her hand in front of her on the table and stared at her determinedly.

“Chloe,” she said emphatically. “I love you so much.”

She’d never seen Aubrey this drunk before. It was kind of overwhelming, but Chloe obviously knew the answer to that particular statement.

She moved her free hand on top of Aubrey’s.

“I love you _more_ , Bree.”

Aubrey shook her head seriously.

“Impossible. Completely impossible.”

Chloe didn’t argue; she just traced a thumb along the back of Aubrey’s hand and curiously stared back at her friend’s adamant expression. It helped, anyway, to know that Aubrey hated living far away from her as much as Chloe did.

“Okay, are we ready to stop being gross now?” Beca asked, sharing an amused glance with Patrick.

“No one asked for your opinion, Dobby,” Aubrey quipped, taking back her hand to reach again for the bottle.

Beca caught Chloe’s eyes grumpily.

“Dobby’s not even a goblin,” she mumbled.

Chloe gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

After finishing another sip, Aubrey contorted her face comically. Chloe still couldn’t _believe_ she was drinking straight from the bottle.

When she attempted to set the bottle down on the table, her hand slipped—accidentally almost dropping it.

“Crap!” she exclaimed loudly, steadying it just in time.

“Shhh,” Beca hushed her, peering around with worry. “You’ll wake everyone up.”

“Calm down, Beca.” Patrick picked the bottle up off the table for himself. “They’re all upstairs, anyway.”

Chloe was so impressed with Patrick’s tolerance. She’d lost track of how many sips he’d taken from the bottle, but he still didn’t seem drunk at all—just happy.

“Mom really packed everyone up there, didn’t she?” Beca asked. “I think she and Eileen are actually sharing the big room to make it work.”

Patrick nodded.

“Yeah, they are. They gave me the smaller guest room to myself up there, which was nice, but honestly makes no sense.”

“The guest room on the ocean side?” Chloe asked brightly, twisting her hand around to hold Beca’s within hers.

Beca cringed, knowing what was coming.

“Uh, yeah,” Patrick answered.

Chloe beamed.

“Beca and I _love_ that room.”

It was adorable, how quickly the face beside her reddened.

“Oh, _God_ ,” Aubrey muttered, reaching over to grab the bottle from Patrick’s hands.

Beca, mortified, released herself from Chloe’s grasp to cover her face with both hands.

*

Forty minutes later, when the conversation had settled into a lull, Aubrey suggested they all play truth or dare.

“Seriously?” Beca asked, pouring herself her first glass of wine. (They’d run out of liquor.) “We’re literally nearing thirty, and that’s your suggestion?”

“ _We’re_ nearing thirty,” Aubrey replied, gesturing in a sweeping motion at herself, Patrick, and Chloe. “You’re nearing adulthood.”

“Come on, Beca,” Chloe moved a hand to her knee as she settled back onto the couch. “It’ll be fun! Ask me truth or dare.”

No one was really surprised that Beca (especially drunk Beca) didn’t take more convincing than that.

She sighed, and turned towards her wife.

“Truth or dare, Chloe?”

She didn’t even register a reaction when Chloe responded, “dare.”

(Chloe always chose the same thing.)

Beca suppressed a smile, keeping her eyes on Chloe while gesturing towards Aubrey.

“I dare you to finally drop this dead weight of a friendship.”

Aubrey narrowed her eyes.

“ _Beca_ ,” Chloe warned.

“She’s an adult now; she can handle it.”

Chloe just glared back disapprovingly.

“God, fine,” Beca gave in, still forcing down a smirk that kept resurfacing. She locked eyes with Chloe. “Then I dare you to kiss me.”

Aubrey gagged.

“Oh, _now_ who’s gross?” she asked, but Beca probably didn’t even hear her as Chloe happily complied with the request.

Chloe kept a hand on Beca’s face, lightly trailing her fingers across her cheek as she pulled back.

“Ladies, please,” Aubrey pleaded.

Chloe veered round to take in the sight of Aubrey and Patrick, considering carefully whom to choose next. Patrick nervously fumbled with the edge of his shirt sleeve.

“Patrick, truth or dare?” she asked gently.

That took him a little off guard. Chloe watched his expression cool as everyone turned towards him.

“Uh. Truth,” he decided.

As soon as he’d said it, his eyes darted furtively to Aubrey, and just as quickly turned away. He shouldn’t have worried—Chloe wasn’t about to point out the obvious, anyway.

Beca laughed.

“Chlo, if you need tips on how to humiliate him the most with this question, you know who to ask.”

Chloe considered Beca calmly—she was laughing a lot, and moving so naturally. It was wonderful. For all her teasing, she always looked so _at home_ when she hung out with Patrick.

She kept her eyes on her wife as she asked the question.

“Patrick, what’s the _nicest_ thing Beca’s ever done for you?”

Now it was Aubrey’s turn to laugh—delighted that Beca, after all, was going to be the embarrassed one.

“Really?” he asked, deep reluctance seeping through the question.

“Really,” Chloe answered.

He wrinkled his nose with distaste, but he was clearly thinking about it.

After a minute, he made up his mind.

“I guess there was the time she pretended like she was the one who stole that bottle of wine from the cabinet—so that I wouldn’t miss…” He trailed off. “Something.”

“So that you wouldn’t be grounded from your first _date_ ,” Beca clarified, and if she was trying to distract from her own sweetness, it wasn’t working.

“Awww, Beca,” Chloe laughed, stroking her hair. “You’re such a good cousin.”

“That _was_ pretty solid, dude,” Patrick conceded. “Especially because I don’t think Beca even had a sip of booze till she was, like, eighteen.”

Chloe looked from Beca to Patrick, suddenly feeling surprisingly emotional. It must have been the drinking.

“I’m so glad you guys have each other,” she blurted out. “It’s so important.”

Beca looked like maybe she was going to say “gross” again, but Chloe kept going.

“It’s like me and Bree,” she said, more quietly. “She’s like that for me.”

Aubrey turned to her, a little startled.

Chloe could feel that strange sadness rising in her chest again. The alcohol definitely wasn’t helping.

“I didn’t have _anyone_ before I had her,” she finished, knowing they could hear her voice crack. She didn’t care.

Aubrey reached across the table again, this time with both hands. Chloe grabbed them both tightly.

“Me neither,” Aubrey breathed out. “I didn’t have anyone either.”

Chloe waited for a sarcastic comment from Beca, but instead, she just felt a soft hand against her back, circling gently.

Maybe everything was going to be okay.

*

When Aubrey, to Patrick’s question, had unexpectedly chosen “dare,” Chloe wondered if things were about to get interesting. Instead, he’d whispered the dare to smack Beca upside the head.

Chloe was still comforting her drunk, disgruntled wife about that choice.

Aubrey might have been feeling a little apologetic when she chose Beca for the next challenge.

“Truth,” she mumbled.

Aubrey looked at Chloe in anticipation as she asked Beca her question.

“So _I_ already know the answer to this, but I don’t think everyone does. Beca, how many voicemail messages did you leave me after you decided to propose to Chloe?”

Beca had gone red again. Her hands started to move back up towards her face, but Chloe stopped them.

“Beca,” she said sweetly. “How many?”

Staring at Chloe, she cringed as she answered.

“Uh, eight.” Before Chloe could respond, she rushed to keep talking. “But like at least three of those were me calling to apologize for leaving so many messages and telling her to ignore them.”

“She was so worried,” Aubrey noted fondly.

“What an idiot,” Patrick offered.

Chloe moved a hand soothingly up Beca’s arm, wondering why she would even be embarrassed about something like that anymore.

“You _never_ had to be worried, Beca,” she said calmly.

“I mean, I know that _now_ ,” she answered, her face turned down towards her lap. She was still red.

“I would have said yes _way_ before that, you know.” Chloe reached over to lift her chin, tilting her head slightly to catch her eyes. “I probably would have, like, if you’d asked me the _first_ time we were on this couch together.”

Beca’s smile (so shy, Chloe’s favorite kind) was betraying her again.

“When your head was in my lap,” Beca said softly.

Chloe nodded.

“Mmhmm. I totally would have.”

They were still grinning at each other when Patrick interrupted.

“I don’t know how you put up with this shit,” he remarked, probably to Aubrey.

“I take responsibility for this conversation. I apologize.”

Chloe could hear both of them complaining, but actually, they didn’t sound irritated at all.

*

Exhausted, they all agreed they’d stop after the next question.

Chloe looked at the faces around her as if she were already watching it as a memory. She felt proud, and safe, and sad—all at the same time. It was so nice, and it was going to end so soon.

Beca asked her, “truth or dare?”

She always chose the same thing, of course, but in that moment, it didn’t quite feel right.

“Truth,” she said, and Aubrey and Beca met each other’s eyes with surprise.

Aubrey nodded at Beca. Chloe didn’t know what that meant.

“Chloe,” Beca asked, taking one of her hands in hers and moving her thumb along the back of it, “are you happy at _all_ in New York?”

Oh. Oh, okay.

Chloe looked down at their hands.

“It’s okay,” Beca told her, almost whispering.

Chloe breathed in deeply.

“I mean, _you’re_ there,” she said. “So it’s not that bad.”

She turned her eyes up to Beca. It didn’t look like she was convinced.

“Chloe, if you don’t like it, we can leave. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

Chloe felt horrible. Did Beca miss Atlanta? She hated that Beca had given up so much—her whole growing career—to move to a city where she knew no one.

For Chloe.

“Do _you_ want to leave?” she asked meekly. “Beca, I feel so _bad_ …”

“No!” Beca stopped her, shaking her head emphatically. “That’s not what I meant. You doing this—your program—Chloe, it’s like my fucking dream. But if you hate it, then we don’t have to stay.”

Chloe felt so warm, looking at her. It was a question she asked herself often: how had she gotten this lucky?

“Your fucking dream?” she repeated.

Beca rolled her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said.

Chloe brought the hand in hers up to her lips, kissing it.

Letting go of Beca, she reached for her phone, and (nervously) pulled up a document.

“It’s not that I _hate_ it,” she admitted, passing the phone to Beca. “I just… well, I don’t know if I’m even good at it, Beca. At all.”

Her stomach flipped as she watched Beca curiously turn to the screen. She hated how much she was about to disappoint her.

It was a paper—the first paper Chloe had handed in for her PhD program, returned and graded by her professor.

A shadow of worry moved across Beca’s face as she kept reading. It was taking her a while, probably because she had to squint through her blurry drunken haze to make out the words. Seeing Beca grow more anxious as she made her way through the document, Aubrey left her armchair to come around to Beca’s left side, craning her neck to read over her shoulder.

“It’s mostly the final comments,” Chloe said shyly. “That’s the… well, I don’t know.”

Beca scrolled down, and—Chloe’s heart sped up—started reading out loud slowly.

“This paper receives an A-,” she started. The word “minus” barely made it through her lips for all of her apparent disgust with it. “I wish I were able to give it an A, as it is a very well-written and creative piece.”

Beca looked up hopefully at Chloe, but she shook her head, waiting for Beca to keep going.

“However, my concern for you as you begin your foray into the world of academia is that your attachment to vague concepts, such as of ‘love’ and ‘suffering,’ has forced your theoretical framework to take a backseat to more emotionally-driven reflection.”

She stopped, her cheeks coloring with anger.

Aubrey, a familiar glint of rage in her eyes, snatched the phone from Beca’s hand.

“At times,” she read, “your writing veers towards the sentimental, in a manner which would cause you not be taken seriously by your peers were you to submit such an article for publication.”

There was more, but Aubrey stopped.

Chloe was worried that she was going to throw her phone across the room, but instead she just slammed it down hard against the table.

(Beca normally would have yelled at her for this, Chloe was sure, but she was evidently too busy narrowing her eyes and staring into space furiously.)

“This is bullshit, Chloe,” she said eventually. “You know that, right?”

Chloe bit at the inside of her lower lip. She’d known Beca would probably say something like that, but…

She didn’t know.

“Chloe, _this is bullshit_ ,” Beca repeated, moving both hands to frame Chloe’s face. “Besides, he obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You’ve already been published, remember?”

Chloe shrugged, nodding a little from within Beca’s grasp.

“Your article about Anna and Osip,” Beca reminded her. “Which was literally the best thing I’ve ever read, by the way.”

(Chloe couldn’t help smiling a little at Beca calling them by their first names.)

“Honestly, this guy sounds like a real prick,” Patrick shared, reading through the words again on Chloe’s phone. “And despite being such a complete douchebag, he still gave you an A-.”

Beca flinched slightly at her least favorite word, “minus,” being spoken again. She let go of Chloe’s face, but grabbed one of her hands tightly.

“That’s a good point, Chloe,” Aubrey insisted, moving around them to sit on Chloe’s right. “Even he couldn’t deny it was beautiful.”

“Like _everything_ you write is,” Beca said, and Aubrey eagerly nodded her confirmation.

Chloe could feel her whole body relaxing with relief. Why had she been so scared to talk to them about this?

She was so, so lucky.

After a moment’s thought, Beca added: “like everything you _do_ is.”

Chloe squeezed her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice low, and looked around at all three of the beautiful faces around her.

“Chloe,” Aubrey asked her, placing a hand on her shoulder, “what do you want? Do you _want_ to keep doing this?”

(If she had them, then yes, she was pretty sure.

Then yes, she did.)

“You’re not doing it for guys like your douchebag professor,” Beca told her. “Right? It’s for the kids you’ll teach. And everyone who’ll read your stuff.”

She reached over to grab her phone from Patrick, scrolling up on the document to Chloe’s own paragraphs. She held it out to her wife, pointing at her words.

“There are people _waiting_ for this, Chlo. People who don’t even know it yet.”

Chloe could feel tears welling up in her eyes again, and for the first time in a few months, they felt really, really good.

She nodded, slowly at first, then more surely.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Beca asked warmly, watching Chloe take the phone into her hands. “Good.”

Chloe reached up to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. Aubrey moved an arm around her.

Okay, she thought.

She could do this.

*

Chloe was breathing more easily than she had in forever as she brushed her teeth, even if she didn’t feel at her most coordinated. It’d taken her a while—and a good deal of squinting—to get the toothpaste on the brush.

She thought of Beca, already asleep in the twin bed they had claimed, and her heart leapt in anticipation of rolling in next to her. Aubrey and Patrick had stayed on a little longer in the living room, talking, and Chloe was starting to wonder if her best friend was even going to come back for the night.

When she heard steps in the hallway, then, she brightened immediately, and rushed out to greet her.

But as soon as she moved into the hallway, she stopped short—Aubrey wasn’t alone.

She was giggling as she stumbled towards the door, Patrick’s hand in hers, and he kept shushing her, also laughingly. He probably thought Chloe and Beca were both already in bed.

Aubrey leaned back against the wall just by the door frame. She was smiling—Chloe had never seen her smile quite like that.

She couldn’t see Patrick’s face, but she could only imagine what it looked like as Aubrey lightly placed a hand on his chest.

Chloe _could_ see his hands move uncertainly to her hips, and how Aubrey suddenly pulled him closer by his shirt, standing up on her toes to bridge the couple inches between them.

Seeing her hand move to the back of his neck, Chloe turned away.

Slowly, as quietly as she could, she moved back into the bathroom and sat down on the rim of the bathtub.

She felt bad—it wasn’t something she was supposed to have witnessed.

(Still, she couldn’t help grinning at the thought of it—how happy Aubrey had looked, how brave.)

She waited to hear the door close lightly, and one pair of steps walking away, before returning to the hallway.

When she entered their room, Aubrey was already in her twin bed.

She opened her eyes a little as she heard Chloe enter, and responded with a broad, welcoming smile. Chloe hoped the one she gave in return said everything she wanted to tell her.

Aubrey shut her eyes, and the expression on her face was still so calm, content.

As she climbed into her own bed, Chloe soaked in Beca’s warmth. Carefully, so as not to wake her, she pressed a kiss softly to her forehead.

In less than a minute, she was asleep.

*

**Friday, November 23 rd, 2018 (Black Friday)**

Chloe wasn’t exactly ready to get out of bed when her eyes opened that morning; she could have easily lied there with Beca, who had somehow ended up in Chloe’s arms as they slept, for at least a few more hours.

It was the sound of the piano that did it.

Chloe wasn’t an expert on piano compositions, not the way Aubrey was. But being her best friend for a decade had taught her a few things.

Aubrey played Chopin’s Études when she was lonely, and Beethoven when she was mad. If she broke out the Debussy—that was rarer—it was because she just was happy.

Field’s Nocturnes, though—that was something else. It was harder to explain. Aubrey played Field when she was _thinking_ , when she was struggling to figure something out.

Chloe kissed the back of Beca’s head, and, as gently as she could, moved her out of her arms. Beca shivered, it looked like, but she didn’t wake up.

Sitting up on the bed, Chloe had to steady herself from the dizziness that followed. She’d forgotten how much they’d drunk the night before.

She carefully climbed down from the bed and picked up her phone which had apparently ended up on the floor: 8:32 AM. Yikes.

She took in a deep breath and walked out into the hallway, following the sound of the music.

The piano was in a small room adjacent to the living room, which was mostly being used as overflow toy storage for Avi during his stay. The morning light moved through the room’s tall windows to illuminate the space—and, most importantly, the loose strands of Aubrey’s hair as she played.

Chloe climbed over a few abandoned Transformers to make her way to the piano bench, sitting down close beside Aubrey.

She paused briefly as Chloe sat down. She’d been so wrapped up in the music, it seemed like, she hadn’t noticed she was there till then.

“Good morning, Chloe,” she said serenely.

(She was so peaceful. Chloe liked it.)

“Keep playing, Bree,” she told her, and Aubrey smiled softly.

She turned back to the piano—she was playing by memory—and continued. After about a minute, she closed her eyes, bending down closer to the keys and playing more feelingly.

Her eyes were still shut when Chloe heard someone at the threshold.

She turned to see him (lips stained from the wine the night before, his hair a mess) and took in the sight of him warmly. She gestured for him to come closer.

He hesitantly shook his head—“no, it’s okay,” he mouthed—but that was just silly, Chloe thought.

She moved a hand to Aubrey’s arm. Her friend looked up in surprise, though without missing a note.

Chloe nodded towards the door, and Aubrey moved her hands off the keys for a moment to turn around. As her eyes found Patrick, he automatically started to take a step back, but stopped when he saw the sincerity of her reaction.

Chloe moved to the right on the bench, and Aubrey followed suit, nodding at the newly empty space on her left. Patrick was so obviously trying to keep his beaming under control as he came around to sit on the other side of Aubrey.

She resumed playing: Nocturne No. 8, Chloe was pretty sure.

Chloe listened, and remembered.

(It had been almost ten years—almost exactly—since Chloe had followed the most wonderful sounds she’d ever heard down the stairs to her dorm’s basement.

Aubrey had been so nervous, but Chloe would never forget the way her whole demeanor had gentled soon after Chloe sat down next to her.

Chloe was sure, she was totally sure that she couldn’t possibly love her more.)

*

Aubrey, for the most part, moved from one composition to the next without pausing, but about twenty minutes after Patrick arrived, she stopped to take in a breath.

Patrick, more boldly than Chloe had expected, used the opportunity to ask a question.

“So, how did you start playing in the first place?” he asked, his ears going red as he spoke.

Chloe expected her to give the answer she always gave when people asked—her father was an incredible pianist; he had taught her—and had to control her gaping when Aubrey told him what it had taken her three years of friendship to share with Chloe.

“My father tried to teach me,” she said, moving her fingers back to the keys without playing. “But I was really awful at it—like, really horrible.”

“I doubt that,” Patrick said quickly, but she shook her head.

“No, Patrick, I was _awful_ ,” she insisted. “I could barely play scales.” Her brow furrowed at the memory. “I hated it,” she added, lowering her voice.

Chloe felt an ache in her chest as she watched her friend’s troubled face.

(There was nothing Chloe hated more in the world that she hadn’t known Aubrey before Barden—that she hadn’t _been_ there for her.)

Patrick’s voice, when he spoke again, was very soft.

“So, what changed?”

Aubrey stared forward expressionlessly for a few moments.

Without warning, she started playing again.

It wasn’t her usual choice—not as complex, not as fluid—just a few solid chords, bright and clear.

After a few bars, she stopped, and turned to Chloe, as if she were the one who had asked.

“I started playing at church,” she explained. “I liked it better there. Um.” She moved a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would go there a lot.”

Patrick caught Chloe’s eyes questioningly. She knew that the worry in his expression was probably reflected even more strongly on her own face.

Aubrey resumed her playing, the same chords as before. Chloe began to recognize it as she went on; she had only ever played it for her once before.

It was a hymn.

After sounding out the same few measures twice, Aubrey started again. This time, she added her voice:

 _Dear refuge of my weary soul,_  
_On thee, when sorrows rise,_  
_On thee, when waves of trouble roll,_  
_My fainting hope relies._

Chloe shivered a little. She moved her hands along her arms as she kept listening.

(There was still so much she didn’t know. So much Aubrey hadn’t told her.)

But her friend sounded so sweet as she sang—Chloe thought—just like the little kid she must have been once.

Patrick’s eyes didn’t move at all from Aubrey’s face as she continued, even as her voice wavered at the end of the second verse:

 _Yet gracious God, where shall I flee?_  
_Thou art my only trust,_  
_And still my soul would cleave to thee,_  
_Though prostrate in the dust._

She stopped playing.

Chloe wished she knew what to say—or at least that Aubrey were looking at her instead of down at the keys.

She was about to break the silence, when Patrick beat her to it.

“Aubrey,” he said—so kindly.

She met his eyes.

Chloe couldn’t see her response, but she could see his. She felt immediately uncomfortable, like she’d stumbled upon something very private.

She decided to get up quietly.

With her first movement away from her friend, though, Aubrey reached out a hand to stop her. She locked eyes with her, and Chloe didn’t really know how to interpret the look on her face. She seemed almost scared.

 _It’s okay_ , _Aubrey_ , Chloe wanted to tell her. _We’re here._

Maybe her friend could see that was what she meant. Her tight grip on Chloe’s arm slackened, and she breathed again with what sounded like relief.

It was as she did that that they all realized they were no longer alone.

“Thanks for inviting me to the party, guys.”

Chloe turned to see her wife’s confused face as she leaned against the door frame. She looked pale—Chloe hoped she wasn’t feeling sick.

“Beca,” she said warmly, and (with a light touch to Aubrey’s shoulder on her way up) pushed herself off the bench to walk towards her.

*

Beca was, in fact, feeling sick.

Chloe slowly rubbed her back as she knelt in front of the toilet. She could hear Rachel outside the bathroom door yell at Avi to give them privacy.

“Beca,” he chirped brightly at the closed door, “we’re gonna watch _Star Wars_ really soon.”

Beca moved her hands through her hair, doing her best to focus.

“Good, Avi,” she called out, her eyes shut tightly. “That sounds really good.”

“I didn’t even notice that you were drinking so much,” Chloe whispered, comfortingly moving fingers along the back of Beca’s neck.

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Beca replied, probably a little more harshly than she wanted to. She softened her voice. “We just never drink anymore.”

That was true.

“We should visit Patrick and Arnie in Boston more often,” Chloe suggested. “For _lots_ of reasons, but also to keep your tolerance up.”

That inspired a short-lived smile—before Beca once again jerked forward towards the bowl.

Poor little Beca.

*

Beca went back to sleep soon afterwards, insisting that Chloe go on without her.

Chloe would have protested, but knew she would only end up keeping Beca awake anyway.

She filled up a few water bottles for Beca to keep beside the bed and kissed her on basically every inch of her face but for her lips—Beca refused to let her do that, even though she’d brushed her teeth twice.

As Beca’s breath steadied into the rhythm of sleep, Chloe made her way back to the living room.

“Beca’s _missing_ the best part,” Avi complained as she walked in.

On the TV, Darth Vader was holding his lightsaber threateningly up to Luke’s neck.

“She’s really sorry about that, Avi,” she apologized, grabbing an orange from a bowl on the kitchen island. “You’ll have to tell her all about it later.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding as he accepted the task. “I’ll remember it.”

Chloe wasn’t that worried about him following up on that.

Taking care of Beca, Chloe had lost track of where Aubrey and Patrick had gone. When she asked Eileen, who was reading a newspaper quietly at the table, she told her that she thought they were taking a walk out on the rocks.

Chloe brightened. Of course they were.

(She remembered, like she had so many times, Beca’s resolute, serious face as she’d pulled her up out of the water.

What would Chloe have done if she hadn’t moved her arms around her then? It scared her even to think about it.)

Bringing her handful of orange peels up to the trashcan, she noticed that Arnie was sitting alone on the porch out the window.

She poured two mugs of coffee, and walked towards the door.

*

“Good morning, Arnie,” she said cheerfully as she sat down in the porch chair next to him.

He looked surprised as she handed him the mug.

“Morning, Chloe,” he said hoarsely. Chloe wished he’d said “comrade” instead.

The wind was pretty strong that day. Chloe noticed that the tree she liked to the right—the one with orange-brown leaves—was almost bare.

Arnie took a sip.

“I hear I caused something of a commotion last night,” he said, staring out at the waves.

“Oh, Arnie,” she said sympathetically. “It wasn’t like that.”

The wind was blowing his thin white hair in weird directions. If he’d been in a better mood, she would have smoothed it over for him.

“I’m sorry,” she added, and he turned to her curiously. “I just mean—it must be really hard.”

She wasn’t sure exactly what she meant. Everything about what was happening just made her so sad.

“Dying?” he asked, smirking.

“No!” She nearly dropped her mug of coffee. “No, Arnie, you’re not dying.”

“Calm down, comrade,” he laughed roughly. “I know that. You’re all stuck with me for a _while_ yet.”

She relaxed, and reached over, like she had the day before, to place her hand on top of his.

He looked down at her hand and, to Chloe’s surprise, turned over his own so that he could pick hers up slightly.

He was looking at the ring, she realized.

“It was your wife’s,” Chloe said gently.

“Yes, it was.”

“I never thanked you for it, I don’t think,” Chloe told him as he inspected it, narrowing his eyes to see all of the sapphires along the band. “I really love it.”

He patted her hand, and let it drop.

“I was very happy when Rebecca asked me for it,” he said, reaching again for his mug. He looked at her significantly. “I wouldn’t have given it away for just anyone, I hope you know.”

Chloe nodded. She knew.

“Well, I love it,” she said again.

“Good,” he replied, turning back towards the water and settling again into silence.

Chloe waited another minute before speaking again.

“So, Patrick says the story of how you met Molly is _amazing_.”

Arnie shook his head, but Chloe could tell he liked that she’d asked.

“Always making trouble, that kid.”

“Oh, come on, Arnie,” Chloe teased, nudging his arm. “Tell me the story?”

He folded his arms over chest, and he looked so much more energetic, more alive, even just remembering. Chloe had almost forgotten that that was what he was really like.

“There’s not much to it,” he began. “She punched a counter-demonstrator for me, that’s all.”

“ _What_?” Chloe asked, delighted.

“Oh yeah, Patrick loves that story,” he went on. “It was at a sit-in down South. A group of people—bigots—had come to shut us down, and one was roughing me up a little. Till she stepped in, that is. She wasn’t as committed to nonviolent direct action as some of us were, mind.”

“Arnie!” She gaped. “Is that true?”

“Cross my heart,” he told her, tracing a cross on his chest. “I had to ask around with my buddies to find her when they let her out of jail.”

“That is totally crazy,” Chloe told him, shaking her head. “Way better than Beca’s and my story.”

He patted her hand again.

“No, comrade,” he said kindly. “That’s a decent story too.”

He took a final sip of his coffee.

“Patrick’s a good one,” he said thoughtfully. “I know they all worry. But he’s doing good.”

Chloe nodded, and reached over to take his empty mug.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “He definitely is.”

*

Aubrey and Patrick didn’t return to the house till the mid-afternoon, about a half hour after Beca had reemerged, finally feeling steady enough to eat.

Coming into the kitchen through the main hallway, Aubrey caught Chloe’s eyes first.

(She didn’t have to say anything. Chloe beamed back.)

“Hey, you guys want some leftovers?” Beca asked, reaching for an open plate.

Chloe noticed that Patrick turned to Aubrey, letting her make the decision. That wasn’t that surprising.

“Thank you, Beca,” Aubrey answered enthusiastically. “That would be wonderful.”

“Dude, chill,” Beca said, oblivious as usual. “I’m literally just heating up the stuff you guys cooked yesterday.”

Chloe moved her arms around Beca’s waist from behind and kissed her on the cheek. She almost dropped the plate.

“Yeah, but you’re such an _excellent_ microwaver,” she told her.

*

The rest of the afternoon, especially compared with the day before, was mellow.

Eileen drove to pick up their take-out for the evening while the rest of the family piled into the living room, watching _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ on the TV.

Avi, sitting on Cathy’s lap (Beca still wasn’t quite feeling up to being his point person), was absolutely terrified every time Draco Malfoy came on the screen, but launched into a fit of uncontrollable giggles as he watched Ron decide that he was in love with Romilda Vane.

He’d shrieked a little at the sight of the dead Aragog, and Beca had reached over at least two people to seize the remote again, fast forwarding through the scene.

No one commented on the fact that Aubrey and Patrick were sharing an armchair—or, rather, that Aubrey was sitting on the arm of Patrick’s. He grinned at the screen through the whole movie, including when it was totally plot-inappropriate.

Aubrey caught Chloe’s eyes a few times (well, Chloe was _probably_ looking over too often), and each time, her smile back seemed a little less shy.

*

Chloe had looked forward to dinner that night making up for the past one’s weirdness, but, as it turned out, it ended up being even more of a big _thing_.

They’d all just started putting the plastic lids back on the containers of the food when Arnie had announced it very quietly from his chair:

“Don’t everyone go crazy about this, but I think I might need to call a doctor.”

Everyone, at least at first, did go crazy about it.

“What’s wrong?” Cathy blurted out frantically, rushing to his side, while most of the others murmured among themselves, asking each other exactly what Arnie had said.

“It’s all right, everyone,” Arnie responded, annoyed. “Where’s Patrick?”

Patrick (just having heard from Deirdre what Arnie had said) walked calmly around to his seat, and kneeled down to meet Arnie at eye level.

Cathy backed away as he approached.

“You okay?” he asked.

Chloe took Beca’s hand and walked around the table to Aubrey, where Patrick had left her. Her friend’s eyes, predictably, were glued on Patrick, but as Chloe neared, she reached out to link her arm with hers.

“I’m fine,” Arnie insisted. “Just feeling a little chest pain.”

Cathy’s eyes widened in fear.

“I’m calling 911,” Eileen announced hastily, reaching for her phone.

“No, Mom, wait,” Patrick halted her. “Is it like usual?” he asked Arnie. “Like after a big meal—just a little pressure? Or something else?”

“It’s just like usual,” Arnie told him. “But we should call to check.”

“Yeah, no, of course,” he responded, taking his phone out of his pocket.

Cathy looked at Patrick like she had no idea who this stranger in her cottage was.

“Hey, Dr. Silverman,” Patrick said into his phone, standing up and covering his other ear with his hand. “Sorry to bother you.” He paused, listening to the other end. “Yeah, I’m here with Arnie. He says he’s having a little bit of chest pain.”

Patrick answered the doctor’s questions steadily as the rest of the family watched him.

“Tell her I think it’s stopped,” Arnie interjected, and Patrick nodded.

When he hung up, he announced calmly to the family that he was going to drive Arnie to the hospital, just in case.

The others resumed their panic, but Beca turned to Chloe to whisper in her ear: “you should walk Arnie to Patrick’s car. We’ll deal with the rest of them.”

*

Chloe could still hear Beca and Patrick impatiently fielding the concerns and questions of their anxious relatives as she and Arnie (holding on tightly to her arm) were almost at the door.

“Bet you wish you hadn’t married into a madhouse right now,” he said as she reached for the doorknob.

“Oh, I like the madhouse,” she answered, opening the door.

Aubrey caught up with them as they stepped outside, a giant tote bag on her arm.

Chloe peered into it questioningly.

“Just some food and drinks,” Aubrey explained. “For if we’re at the hospital a long time.”

Of _course_ Aubrey had thought of that.

“I like this one,” Arnie told Chloe, nodding towards Aubrey. “Not as much as I like you, but she’ll do.”

Chloe shrugged apologetically at Aubrey, but she seemed to have taken it as a compliment.

They walked together slowly towards the car.

*

Arnie sat to the left of Chloe and Beca in the back of the car, staring out the window as Patrick drove.

Aubrey, from the front passenger’s seat, pulled a couple bottled waters out of her tote bag and offered them to the back seat.

Beca shook her head, but Chloe held out her hand to take one.

“So, we’re pretty good with this whole emergency response team thing, huh?” Beca asked as Chloe unscrewed the cap.

“Kind of impressive, actually,” Patrick noted from the front seat.

Chloe moved her hand over Arnie’s uncertainly.

(She wasn’t as good at joking during these times as Beca was.)

“Yeah, yeah, you’re all heroes,” Arnie grunted.

*

Patrick went in with Arnie to meet with the doctor while they waited in the emergency room.

Aubrey pretended to be reading (some book about an unsolved theorem; Chloe loved when Aubrey read things about math for fun), actually just staring down at one page, thinking so loudly Chloe could almost hear it.

Beca worked her way through the small Tupperware container of almonds and raisins Aubrey had managed to pack on extremely short notice. She glanced over longingly at the nearby vending machine a few times, but didn’t say anything. Maybe she realized that it might hurt Aubrey’s feelings.

Chloe pulled her close, letting her head rest on her shoulder.

“How are you doing?” Chloe whispered.

Beca moved a few more raisins into her mouth. She shrugged.

“Chlo, can I read your paper?” she asked unexpectedly. “While we’re waiting, I mean.”

Chloe knew that question shouldn’t have made her nervous. Beca loved her writing.

(It’d helped so much to talk with them the night before, but she still couldn’t get the words out of her head: “vague concepts, such as of ‘love’ and ‘suffering,’” “veers towards the sentimental.”)

“Please?” Beca asked—so sincerely—and Chloe couldn’t say no to that.

She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and pulled up the file.

Beca held out a hand for it, but Chloe didn’t relinquish her phone just yet.

“Do you have any music you’re working on now on yours?” she asked.

Beca winced.

“Everything I’m working on right now is so worthless, Chloe.”

Chloe kept the phone in her hand.

“Let me decide that,” she told her gently.

Beca took a moment, but she relented.

They switched phones, and Chloe plugged her earplugs into Beca’s.

They waited.

*

About a half hour later, Patrick came out to the waiting room. They all straightened up in their seats, seeing him. Beca moved the back of her hand over her eyes, sniffing as she put down the phone.

“How is he?” Chloe asked as he approached.

“I mean, he’s fine,” Patrick answered. “They think so too. I don’t know how long it’ll take before they actually let us go, though.”

“Oh, _good_ ,” Aubrey said with relief. “I’m so glad he’s okay.”

“He’s so fine, guys,” Patrick told them. “I promise.”

“Do you want some snacks?” Chloe asked, holding up Aubrey’s bag.

“Listen,” he said, ignoring Chloe’s question and holding out his keys, “you guys should go home. Arnie and I will take a cab back.”

“No way,” Beca responded, shaking her head. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m serious,” he told them. “It might be a while.”

“We’re serious too,” Aubrey said steadily.

(He stared.)

“Personally, _I_ am serious about you eating some snacks,” Chloe said brightly, holding up the bag again.

Giving in, he indifferently pulled a container of cashews from the bag.

“All right, well, I’ll be back,” he said hesitantly.

“Send him our love, okay?” Chloe asked.

“I will,” he told her—and Chloe believed it.

*

Eileen and Cathy were waiting at the kitchen table by the time they all got home, around midnight.

“Oh, thank God,” Cathy said, reaching her arms around Arnie as he walked in.

“Will you let me take my coat off first?” he grumbled.

She let him go.

“Everything’s okay?” Eileen asked apprehensively, meeting Patrick’s eyes.

Patrick held up the pack of exit paperwork he’d received from the doctor.

“On top of it, Mom,” he told her. “Everything’s fine.”

Cathy wasn’t yet done with uncharacteristic displays of affection for the night. She rushed forward and threw her arms around her nephew.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and Patrick just barely hugged her back. She looked around at the rest of them. “Thanks to all of you.”

It seemed like Patrick was about to say what a _not_ big deal it was again, so Chloe decided to put an end to it instead.

“You’re welcome, Cathy,” she said. “But I think it’s time for us all go to bed, huh?”

*

In the midst of all the unexpected chaos, Chloe had lost track of time. She hadn’t even realized till she was already in pajamas that it was Aubrey’s last night in Maine.

The thought hit her unexpectedly hard. It had only taken a couple days for her to get used to having her back, but somehow she knew she’d _never_ get used to the alternative.

She settled into the bed despondently, watching Aubrey fold and refold items to put in her suitcase.

“Well, I think we can all agree this has been a successful Thanksgiving,” Beca asserted as she settled into the bed beside Chloe. “An awkward family fight, a near death experience, _and_ I was forced to eat nuts as a snack. That’s a trifecta, right there.”

Chloe managed a half-hearted laugh, but her eyes stayed on Aubrey.

She kept wanting to ask her if she absolutely _had_ to leave, but—of course she did. Chloe shouldn’t be so selfish.

Aubrey seemed to notice her persistent staring.

“It’s not that long till Christmas, Chlo,” she said affectionately.

“Oh,” Chloe answered shakily, as if the line of thought were unexpected. “I know.”

After a few seconds, Beca groaned.

Chloe, confused, turned to her to see what was wrong.

“Fine,” Beca said, rolling her eyes. She pushed herself up out of the bed, and then extended her hand to her wife.

Chloe followed uncertainly, flinching at the loss of the warmth from the covers.

“Bree,” Beca asked, “could you move the nightstand? So it’s not in between the beds?”

Chloe, understanding, broke out into a wide smile.

Aubrey (also understanding) followed the order without hesitation.

“This is so fucking weird,” Beca muttered as she pushed the bed forward. “Let’s never tell anyone about this.”

“Shall I point out that it was your idea?” Aubrey asked, settling into the larger bed they’d made of the two.

Chloe moved in—the middle, as always—and Beca followed, turning off the lamp on the nightstand (now to their left) before rolling into Chloe’s arms.

Chloe leaned forward to plant a kiss to Beca’s shoulder. She felt so much happier already.

“Night, Bree,” she whispered, safe in the knowledge that she was right beside her.

“Goodnight, Chloe,” her friend replied. “Sweet dreams.”

As usual, she was the first to fall asleep.

*

**Saturday, November 24 th, 2018 **

They woke up early to go out for a walk on the rocks before taking Aubrey to the airport.

Chloe wasn’t _quite_ feeling sad. How could she be, walking through her favorite place with Beca and Aubrey right beside her?

She took in a breath and choked a little on it—the sharp smell of low tide—mud, seaweed, and salt. She knelt down to pick up one of the smooth, round stones on the ground, and folded it into her palm. She decided to bring it back with her to New York, to help her remember.

She moved it to her jacket pocket.

The sun was bright that morning. She had been kind of wrong, she realized, the first time she’d been up there in Maine, when she’d thought how _different_ the ocean was there than where she’d grown up. When the sunlight shone through the water like that, shading it so much lighter than usual, Chloe could _almost_ imagine herself back on the beach with her mom.

(They’d gone back a few times, after Chloe’s first time in the ocean, so her mother could teach her to swim.

She’d said that she should learn to protect herself.

That had never really been Chloe’s strong suit, but she’d loved the lessons—she’d loved every second of her mom looking _just_ at her, reaching over to readjust her arms or to show her how to kick.

Sometimes, Chloe had pretended she didn’t remember what she’d learned, just to make it last longer.)

Beca watched her inquiringly as she thought about it. Shaking the memory out of her head for the time being, Chloe smiled and reached for her hand.

She pointed the line of rocks out to Aubrey.

“You know, Bree,” she told her, “Beca and Patrick used to run along those when they were kids.”

Aubrey’s eyes flashed as she followed the direction of Chloe’s hand.

“Yeah?” she asked, turning towards Beca.

“Yeah,” Beca confirmed. “He was better at it than I was.”

“Not hard to believe,” Aubrey replied without a beat.

Chloe cast her a warning glance.

Grudgingly, she apologized.

*

She should have known they wouldn’t get through a whole vacation without Aubrey and Beca planning something.

They were on their way back to the cottage, only a few minutes away, when Aubrey noticed her phone vibrating in her hand.

Reading what was on the screen, she looked up with surprise, sharing a glance with Beca.

“It’s done,” she said.

(What?)

“Already?” Beca asked, as if this were a conversation that made sense. “I thought you said…”

“I thought it would take longer,” Aubrey interrupted her.

What was going on?

“Bree…?” Chloe asked hesitantly.

Hearing her voice, Aubrey moved a hand to her arm and looked at her with sudden excitement.

It was Beca who explained.

“Aubrey knows a dude who owns a corporate retreat center in New York,” she told her. “He’s retiring, and recommended Aubrey to the board as his replacement.” She looked back at Aubrey. “They approved you?”

“They did,” Aubrey confirmed. “It’s done.”

It took Chloe a few seconds to process what Beca was saying.

She did the best she could to stem the flow of happiness that coursed through her at the thought.

“But Aubrey, no.” Chloe shook her head. “You love the Lodge. You _made_ the Lodge! And you wouldn’t be in the woods or…”

“I hate being so far away from you, Chloe,” Aubrey said, gripping her hand tightly. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Chloe was speechless. She used the interruption of a few loud seagull squawks as an excuse to catch her breath.

“It’s not my ideal work plan, no,” Aubrey went on. “But it’s not bad! Not to mention it pays about twice as much.”

“Way to ruin the mood, Bree,” Beca cut in.

Chloe was out of excuses. She took her hand out of Aubrey’s and threw her arms around her neck. Aubrey almost fell over with the force of it.

“When?” she asked quietly.

“I’m not sure yet exactly,” Aubrey responded, moving her own arms around Chloe’s back. “Maybe a few months?”

“Oh,” Chloe said, not with _too_ much disappointment.

“Just a few months, Chlo,” Beca said comfortingly. “And she’ll have to visit first, right? To meet with people?”

Aubrey nodded.

“And Christmas too,” she reminded her. “Don’t forget.”

That was true. Chloe let go of Aubrey, and wiped her eyes with both her hands.

“I can’t _wait_ ,” she said emphatically.

“She’s not moving into our apartment, though,” Beca told her seriously. “I refuse.”

Chloe reached over to move a few fingers through Beca’s hair.

“You didn’t tell me about this,” she said, realizing.

Beca shrugged.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

(She didn’t look that sorry.

Neither did Aubrey.)

“Next time, can you guys maybe let me in on the planning? Like, for once?”

Aubrey and Beca, wind blowing strands of hair into both their faces, exchanged a look that probably meant “definitely not.”

*

The walk to the cottage after that, for the most part, was silent, only punctuated by a brief comment from Beca about how close New York was to Boston.

(Aubrey hadn’t dignified that with a response, but Chloe warmed at the thought.

They’d all go. They’d visit all the time.)

Patrick and Arnie were waiting for them on the porch, Patrick holding Aubrey’s suitcase at his side.

Chloe wondered if he’d known at all about Aubrey’s plans—but she guessed he was probably just as much in the dark as she’d been.

“Really sorry to see you go, my dear,” Arnie told Aubrey, about as genuine as he ever was, standing up with difficulty to give her a hug. “You’ll come visit us sometime?” he asked, a gleam in his eye.

Chloe was surprised she didn’t just tell him the news right off the bat, but she guessed she had her reasons for saving it.

“I’m sure I’ll find a way,” she said instead, kissing Arnie lightly on the cheek as she let him go.

Patrick looked so despondent, Chloe could hardly stop herself from shouting out what she knew. Aubrey gave her the most gentle version of a warning as she met her eyes.

“Ready?” Patrick asked, doing his very best to mask his sadness.

“All set,” she told him, grabbing her suitcase handle, and watching him excitedly. “Oh,” she added, as if she’d forgotten something, “and we all want to ask your opinion about something on the way there.”

He stared back blankly.

“Right, Chloe?” Aubrey asked significantly. She was trying to be so sneaky, but even Patrick would have to have known something amazing was up, reading all that joy on her face.

“Oh, for sure,” Chloe replied, enjoying Patrick’s confusion so much.

Maybe that was why they always hid things from her.

*

While Aubrey and Patrick loaded the car, Beca, left behind on the porch with Chloe, moved a hand around her waist.

(It was stronger, an even steadier move than that first time she’d moved her arms around her, when Chloe had helped her up from the water.)

Chloe took in a breath of the sea air, and listened: the tinkling wind chimes above her head, the waves against the rocks, Patrick opening his trunk, the way Aubrey’s laugh carried across the distance.

Most likely, Beca didn’t even realize that she was tapping her fingers against her side, unconsciously finding a rhythm in the world around her, just like she always did.

As Chloe had so many times before, she mentally composed a melody to match Beca’s steady beats.

But now, maybe for the first time, she matched the tune with the only words that seemed to fit:

 _Thank you,_ she thought. _Thank you so, so much._


End file.
